Chapter Nineteen
Interlude Eight; The First Of Many
Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Sun's Dusk 3E 405. It is twenty-four years before the present day. Morgiah is twenty-nine.
All things told, the last six years in Wayrest could be summarised by the expression "brewing storm".
Elysana was now a young woman, and although at seventeen years of age the roundness of youth had not left her face, her eyes told a different story. Not to anyone whom she wished to charm, of course, but to Morgiah – who was naturally not on her list of conquests – the venom in her eyes was clear as day. Through artful exploitation of stereotypes and her own diabolical charisma, she had managed to build a reputation of a mouth that butter would rather die than melt in.
Helseth, in comparison, was not doing so well.
He made no secret of his ambition for the throne. His obsession with politics had steadily grown through his coming of age, and he had wasted no time in securing a regular seat on the council, finally declaring his intentions openly the previous year. He was regarded with wariness by the public – his capability was obvious, but old nationalism died hard. When push came to shove, Wayrest did not want a Dunmer king.
Morgiah watched the players move into place with increasing detachment. Her own calculations had led her to the decision that any involvement in the crown race on her part would be folly. Her thoughts had been drifting further and further from Wayrest over the years, fuelled by her frustration at its academic limits. Quite apart from which, Helseth clearly had his heart set on monarchy and she was loath to place more strain on their already overtaxed relationship.
For Barenziah's part, she did not question her daughter's choice. She was simply glad that her children would not become rivals.
Nevertheless, this lack of conflict prompted something just as objectionable: isolation. Morgiah's withdrawal from Wayrest politics removed her not only from her brother's attention, but that of the entire populace. Rumour and gossip centred on Helseth and Elysana; when Morgiah's name was mentioned once in a blue moon, it was accompanied by a faint suggestion of surprise. "Oh yes, the third one… I forget about her, don't you?"
Morgiah was not oblivious to this slow decline of popular interest, but neither did she hinder it. It was actually for the best. She didn't intend on staying here much longer, and it was better that people didn't have too much dirt on her. Plus, with all eyes trained on Helseth and Elysana, she had the added bonus of conducting her affairs with next to no scrutiny – for example, making underhand use of her mother's extensive spy network.
Morgiah was forming a plan.
Her studies had taken a turn for the particular in the past six years. Since the downfall of the Imperial Simulacrum and the defeat of Jagar Tharn, she had been increasingly interested in the abundant rumours of artefacts. Annoyingly, the so-called hero of Ria Silmane's that had been instrumental in Tharn's defeat had proven fiendishly difficult to pin down – even his name was a mystery. But that didn't stop the gossip. He had found Auriel's Bow. No, it was the Ogmha Infinium. No, the Staff of Chaos had not been destroyed after all; he had taken it for his own. No, it was all of them; he was collecting his own personal armoury of artefacts… and so on.
She could not have told anyone how or when the artefact fire had been kindled in her, but it was burning brightly. One in particular burned the brightest of all: the Ogmha Infinium. It had piqued her interest years ago, but idle interest had quickly become fierce determination. Jagar Tharn's vanquisher had found the legendary tome, and she wanted to know how.
Curiously, her twin desires seemed to point to one place: Firsthold. Six years ago, Barenziah had recommended the city's extensive library in an off-hand comment that had lodged itself in Morgiah's mind with surprising tenacity. Now, the few relevant scraps of information she had managed to gather seemed to point to Firsthold as the home of none other than Ria Silmane's champion himself. She found the unexpected conincidence amusing; ever since she had scorned the hand of fate in Scourg Barrow, it was as if it was determined to prove its existence.
She could hear voices outside her study door, the familiar tones of Helseth and Elysana drifting along the passage. She was surprised; they usually avoided each other like the plague when state occasion did not require their joint presence. She could not distinguish the words, but the poison in both voices was obvious. Elysana hissed a string of obscenities before their footsteps separated, fading in opposite directions down the hall.
Morgiah looked out of the window. It was growing dark, but she could just make out the privet-maze through the dim curtain of snowflakes. Winter was at its height. In three days it would be New Life, the festival of the changing year. A time for celebration and hope.
But for the Wayrest Royal Family, it seemed the new year could bring nothing but strife.
Tel Fyr, Azura Coast Region, Vvardenfell, 23rd First Seed 3E 429.
In Tel Fyr, the Dreamer Master surveyed his underling with cool arrogance. He didn't recognise this particular woman – as much as you could recognise any of the Dreamers under their black-hooded robes – but that was not unusual these days. Helseth's operation had tripled in size the last month, bringing new faces with it.
"I have brought the equipment you requested, Master," she said respectfully, bowing and indicating a heavy brass-bound chest.
"Good," said the Master haughtily, brushing past to inspect the contents. "See that you maintain this level of efficiency. This project is of the highest importance."
"Of course, Master," the woman replied deferentially. She moved behind him as he passed, stepping towards the cabinet at the side of the room. Inside, a stand of glass phials gleamed with indigo liquid.
The master extracted an alembic, placing it carefully on the desk. Bent over the delicate tubing, he did not notice the Dreamer underling slip a hand inside the cabinet and quickly tuck a phial under her cloak.
"Leave me," he told her distractedly, not looking up from his inspection.
Dralasa Llethi obeyed, a smile on her lips.
Scourg Barrow, Dragontail Mountains, Hammerfell, Evening Star 3E 405. It is twenty-four years before the present day. Morgiah is twenty-nine.
The room was quiet, the only audible noises the tick of the exquisitely crafted carriage clock and the low murmur of conversation from the fireside.
"I am most vexed, Princess," said the King, as if he were the kind of man who could be brought low by collapsed shares or a bad harvest.
Morgiah made a sympathetic noise as she sipped her wine. "How so, Sire? Not referring to me, I hope?"
"I don't believe you are even capable of vexing me, Princess." As with so many of his flippant remarks, she was unsure whether it was a compliment or an insult. She suspected he did it on purpose. Bastard.
"Well, tell on. I am aflame to hear your troubles."
"You look it," the King said dryly. "Nevertheless, I think your interest will be piqued when you learn more. The nature of this vexation has to do with artefacts, and I know how close you hold that particular subject to your heart."
Morgiah raised an eyebrow, immediately attentive. "You don't say? Artefacts, plural?"
"Maybe so. I think you will agree that the situation is intriguing. I have received a letter from one Reman, King of Firsthold."
"Firsthold?" Yet another coincidence.
"Indeed. I should like you to read it, if you would be so kind. You see, this predicament happens to involve you."
Taken aback, she met his eyes (such as they were) as he offered the envelope. As always, there was little to be gleaned from their unnatural depths. Burning with curiosity, she took the heavy parchment. The room was silent as she read. The King of Worms watched her, the clock ticking like a metronome.
When she had finished, she folded the letter up neatly and tucked it back in the envelope. "Well. That is interesting."
"Indulge me, Princess." The King leant back in his chair, steepling his gloved fingertips. "I want to hear your take on the matter."
Morgiah rose and walked to the large marble fireplace, resting her hands on the mantel and soaking up the heat. Closing her eyes, she began to mentally sift through the information.
"To me, the most interesting thing is that Reman not only contacted you, but was seemingly able to find you with little difficulty. Since the catastrophe he speaks of could not have happened less than a week ago, you must have been one of the first people he wrote to – even a week is fast from the Summurset Isles to Hammerfell, unless his courier used the Mages Guild. Therefore, I would guess you have an agent at court. Am I right?"
"Very astute. An agent I may have to scold for giving away information so freely, but there you are. By all means, continue."
Morgiah rolled the green gem between her fingers pensively. "Then of course there is the catastrophe itself. Reman's son, heir to the throne, somehow gets his hands on the Necromancer's Amulet – which is apparently, I don't know, hanging around the royal nursery or something? The whole thing seems ridiculous."
The King laughed. "While I delight in the image of Reman amusing his offspring with rattles made of ancient relics, the reality is a little different. Tellanaco is no infant, but the eldest of three, a youth of eighteen. It seems he was poking around the treasury with a couple of highborn lackeys and came across the Amulet quite accidentally. As he touched it, the power released by the physical contact threw his spirit out of Mundus entirely, and from what I can gather from my own investigations since, is suspended at the door to Oblivion in terrible agony. Naturally, his father is concerned."
"What concerns me is what Reman's doing with your jewellery in the first place."
"Ah, so you have done your research!" He seemed inordinately pleased. "The fact that the Amulet was originally mine is not commonly known, despite it being fairly obvious, wouldn't you say? I rather think most people believe me a myth."
"They don't know what they're missing. So, Reman's son is suspended in a state of living death with your Amulet, and Reman contacted you because he, too, knows it rightfully belongs to you. I suppose he thinks you might have some uncommon knowledge of the thing that will present a solution to his unfortunate predicament?"
"Bravo. A most accurate summary."
"Well, I can see what's in this for you: the Amulet, of course. But I have to reproach you for making me believe I was involved. My name is mentioned nowhere in the letter. Were you just trying to whet my appetite?"
"Ah," said the King slowly, toying with his wineglass. "No. It is not Reman that wants to involve you, Princess. It is me."
Pause. "What manner of involvement?"
"I thought we could strike a bargain."
Morgiah was silent.
The idea of doing business with him both excited and repelled her. So far, their relationship had not been at all mercenary. Making some sort of deal together would change that irrevocably, and she was not quite sure she wanted that to happen.
"As I understand, Sire, you are already in my debt. Would you beggar yourself even further?"
He regarded her steadily. "True, of course, the Order of Arkay debacle… although I have repeatedly offered to settle that particular score, and as of yet you have not named your terms. I could almost believe you are withholding in order to secure some kind of tenuous insurance on my future favour. In which case, one might consider my kindly indulgence of such audacity an adequate reward. I assure you, these civilised little wine-drinking sessions are not standard fare in my halls."
That made her feel distinctly threatened. With no facial expression she couldn't gauge his intent, and while it was the kind of thing he might throw out facetiously, this time his tone was more ambiguous. She had allowed herself to become relaxed in his presence over the last six years, but had that really been a good idea? She suddenly realised how pathetic her pretensions of intelligence were compared to his millennia of experience.
But she remembered the fear and danger she had felt on the night she revealed her identity, and how she had mastered it then. She must do so now. "And what would be the nature of this bargain?"
The King did not pursue his needling, much to her relief. "You asked what was in this for me. And you are right, of course; the Amulet. Now it has turned up, I am loath to let it slip into the hands of another wretched 'champion'. The thing is, I find myself in a quandary. I cannot retrieve it alone."
"No? Why?"
"It is complicated. This is an item with which I spent a great deal of time experimenting in my youth. There are… connotations."
She frowned. "What do you mean by that? Something to prevent you from successfully restoring the prince to his father?"
"Oh, I'm afraid it is no longer a case of "successfully restoring". The prince's body was destroyed as soon as he touched the Amulet, and his spirit is now effectively imprisoned. The Amulet has remarkable restorative and magicka reflection properties, and they are keeping him in limbo – originally designed to be helpful, of course, but obviously in this case quite the opposite. He simply cannot die until he is free of it, and so merely idles in a constant state of simultaneous healing and degeneration. Reman is a widower; all he has is the wellbeing of his sons. He will want a final restful death for Tellanaco."
Morgiah drummed her fingers on the mantelpiece. "And you cannot give it."
"Final and restful, no. The Amulet will react to my presence in a manner that I can assure you will create a rather disastrous conclusion for our young prince."
"Dare I ask why?"
The King gave the impression that he was smirking, as he so often did. "The Amulet and I have, shall we say… artistic differences? There will be no problem when it is fully in my possession, but until then, it has something of a life of its own."
Morgiah had a sudden flash of insight as she recalled the common method for enchanting. "Good lord, whose soul did you put in that thing?"
"A story for another visit. Suffice to say that it is powerful enough to project some form of willpower outside the physical confines of the Amulet, and in a delicious twist of irony it particularly dislikes Necromancers. Quite strongly." He came to join her by the fire. "So you see, my intervention is quite out of the question, and I cannot simply use one of my agents; they all have the same problem. I need someone with no Necromantic connections, but who nevertheless has considerable talent in magic… and who hopefully holds me in favourable enough regard to retain a certain amount of discretion."
She laughed; she couldn't help herself. "And I was your best option? You poor soul."
"I confess I am curious to see how you would perform in such a situation. You have never given much away about your abilities, and I find the whole affair quite tantalising."
"So in short, you are conducting some kind of elaborate experiment."
The smirk again. "I sense I am not enticing you."
"Not immeasurably, no."
"Then perhaps this will sweeten the offer. You recall I said this may involve artefacts, plural? I think I have a lead on your pet daydream. I understand you have been researching the whereabouts of the Ogmha Infinium this past decade."
Oh, you tricky thing. "Don't tell me Reman has that tucked away in his treasury as well. What is he doing, opening a museum?"
"I regret to say I do not know the exact location. But I have taken it on myself to do some research, and my contacts inform me that the Infinium has without doubt been in the Firsthold Palace sometime in the last six years. They believe it has something to do with the elusive hero who defeated Jagar Tharn; he is a Firsthold citizen, although infuriatingly evasive of any espionage attempts."
Morgiah deliberated. She had to admit, he'd hooked her. She wanted the Infinium badly. His information was a weak lead, but she was coming to believe that some capricious god was determined to get her to Firsthold, and this was its most ambitious bait yet. "Well, after you've dangled my first artefact in front of me and then snatched it away, I suppose it's only fair you provide an alternative."
The King laughed unexpectedly. "Your first? Princess, do you never fear inciting my wrath? People tend to, you know."
"I've heard as such. Well, as it sounds as if I shall be the one retrieving the Amulet, and I am lead to believe it's finders keepers in this game … but I am a reasonable woman. I shall graciously turn it over to you, since you have so kindly suggested a second."
He gave a sigh of defeat. "And again, I am bested. So," he continued, returning to his desk and filling both their glasses, "is it too much to expect you to name a price this time? Must I languish in debt as I have done before?"
And it came to Morgiah in a single moment of clarity.
"I want to marry Reman," she said.
The King paused. She might even have believed he was thrown. Finally, he swirled the wine around his glass and lifted the crystal to the light, scattering rainbows across the room. "Really? He's an awful bore."
"Bore or not, he's King of Firsthold. I gave up on Wayrest years ago; it's time to set my sights on pastures new."
"New, yes… but ambitious. Firsthold is a most powerful seat, and the Altmer will not take kindly to a foreign queen."
Morgiah was undeterred. "I have been a foreign princess all my life; I don't suppose being a foreign queen will be much different."
"I am certain you will set the court ablaze. I am to take this as my end of the bargain, then?"
Morgiah hesitated. It was a good plan, but something about both proposing and accepting a marriage pact in less than five minutes felt a little heady. "Not immediately. Let me go away and think it over. I'll have my answer for you in one week."
"I cannot promise anything, Princess, but I will do my best to broker for you. Shall I send your likeness to Reman? Or simply use what verbal delights I can conjure from memory?"
"He can see me himself when we come to Firsthold. I imagine he's so desperate to save his son that he'll agree to anything. He'd probably marry Nulfaga."
The King laughed once more. "Very well. Consider your answer carefully, Princess. I shall anticipate it with bated breath."
"Funny," said Morgiah, draining her glass. "I wasn't aware you breathed at all."
Scourg Barrow, Hammerfell, Morning Star 3E 406
Nestled between the crags of the arid Dragontail Mountains, Scourg Barrow looked something like its location's namesake: a beast concealed and ready to strike.
Necromancers were not the only visitors the dilapidated fortress entertained. Occasionally some opportunist adventurer or pious knight would chance upon the structure and brave the undead that lurked in the higher reaches. The Necromancers' own domain was far below the ground; magic being their sole method of entrance, the front door and upper sections were abandoned and unused. It was a useful deterrent for unwary travellers.
Occasionally, one intrepid individual might stumble into the King of Worms' halls. What happened to them varied according to their character. Mercenaries and sellswords out purely for gold were usually unharmed; such people were not likely to incite crusades, and could often be useful for errand-running. Those who looked ready to dash to the nearest Arkay Order were without fail put to the sword. Considering the number of Ancient Liches that flanked the Great Hall's perimeter, this was usually short work. So when an Ohmes Raht Khajiit turned up and prowled her way across the room, she was carefully watched. She looked fairly mercenary, but you could never tell who would turn out to be a zealot.
The King of Worms was on the dais. There had been a gathering not long before, and though the hall was nearly empty, a few agents remained along with two hooded dancers adorning the platform.
"I have a letter for the King of Worms," the Khajiit announced, looking round unnecessarily as if it was somehow hard to pick him out of the crowd.
The red-cloaked figure on the dais slowly turned his head. Though the silhouette was that of a normal man, there was something deeply disturbing about the darkness that gathered under his hood. He held a staff, and the Khajiit jumped as a faint crackle of energy sparked down the shaft.
She could tell he was interested, though. Letters to Scourg Barrow were no doubt scarce, and couriers who successfully battled their way through the hordes of undead to deliver them even scarcer.
The King spoke. To her immense surprise, his voice was not the graveyard rasp she had expected… though there was a faint resonance to it, the trace of a deep echo that made her think of dungeons, of oubliettes, of long-lost tombs beneath the earth. "You're very dedicated for a courier."
"I'm well paid," Bomba 'Lurrina drawled.
"No doubt. By whom?"
"Some princess. I believe you know her."
He did not reply; was he surprised? It was impossible to tell from those unnatural blue fires. Instead, he held one gloved hand out for the letter. She drew it from her pack and passed it over, taking care not to touch his fingers.
She had not been prepared for what she would see here. Morgiah had been frustratingly obscure; the Khajiit had only obliged because she had been promised information on her return, and of course getting cosy with the royals was never a bad idea. So saying, the King of Worms was not quite what she had pictured. The blackness in the hood and the blue lights were inhuman, certainly, but nothing like the diabolical festering lich she had imagined. You couldn't even tell if he was a lich.
Somehow, that made it even worse.
The King finished the letter and lowered it. It was bizarre; even without a face, he seemed to be smiling in amusement. The Khajiit thought that was odd – she had callously read the letter herself, of course, and there was nothing in the innocuously short missive that she would have named comical.
His words had an edge that made her ears buzz and ache. "Excellent; our bargain is struck. As an aside, did she tell you exactly why she was sending a letter?"
"What? No… your Majesty," she suffixed hastily, unsure of the etiquette and erring on the side of caution. "Does she not normally send letters?"
"The Princess and I have an alternative method of communication. I am curious as to why she used you instead. Perhaps she wished to put you in my path… if you're who I think you are, you're making a bit of a name for yourself in the Bay." He passed his staff to an attendant, who took it before retreating to his post. "Stay, Cat. I must write a response."
If Bomba 'Lurrina felt any affront at the insulting epithet, she was wise enough not to voice it. The King retreated into the shadows at the back of the dais, disappearing through a heavy bronze-bound door through which spilled the tantalising glint of soft candlelight.
She endured an uncomfortable few minutes among the silent hooded agents before he returned, a thin envelope with an exquisitely scripted address in his hand. "See that this is delivered directly to the Princess herself. No servant, no thrall, no slave. Her own hand."
She nodded, suddenly looking forward to the rat-infested caverns simply because they marked the path away from this place. An insistent feeling of dread was crawling up her spine like a dismembered hand. Her usual arrogant manner had died; she had never been so keen to get away in her life.
But before she could slip through the door, his disquieting voice hailed her from the stage. "By the way, Cat… keep your eyes open. I may have some employment opportunities for you in the future. The Princess sent you to me for a reason, and I suspect it is because you're useful. Don't worry about killing off any of my pets in the upper halls; they'll be back next time you come."
She looked into his 'eyes', and said the only sensible thing anyone could.
"Yes, Sire."
A/N: Anticlimax? Possibly. I wracked my brains over a realistic "First", but in the end it seemed to develop organically. This peculiar conclusion grew out of a number of observances I'd made on both Morgiah and the King of Worms' personalities, and it seemed to fall into place without much intervention from me. I'm sure a lot of people will find it unsatisfying next to many of the juicier theories that have been proposed - lots of people seemed to like the idea of 'First' referring to virginity, but I didn't want to add that kind of dynamic to their relationship. Plus, what interest does sex hold for a millennia-old demigod? To any millennia-old demigods reading this: answers on a postcard?
Bhen, again I had to disappoint you! Solon will be here eventually, I promise... I did actually make him in Oblivion if you're interested. I can send you the shots if you like, and if you really want, you can have your own personal Solon savegame :D Just remember, he needs feeding and watering three times a day. A Solon is for life, not just for Christmas.
Clodia, thank you for your generous and numerous reviews! I am also delighted that you've been inspired to play Daggerfall, but less delighted that I may have interrupted your dissertation :( Good luck on it! I remember mine; damn, getting that thing out was like giving birth. Funny, I seem to get a very similar feeling nowadays when I open up my King & I notes... :D